


Quiet Intimacy

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Speaking in Tongues [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Introspection, M/M, little angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:59:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Sherlock reflects on their changing relationship.





	

Slowly now, things were changing.

Slowly was not Sherlock’s preferred speed for anything, even change, however this was so unfamiliar that each nuance felt like a whole paradigm shift in itself, and he was glad of the unhurried way they were expanding the quiet intimacy that had crept into their relationship.

Now, rather than asking, John would pick up Sherlock’s mail and sort it, pinning interesting things to the mantle. Sherlock grumbled, of course, but he secretly liked that John could tell which things would be interesting, at least most of the time. And when he was grumbling, John would smile indulgently and look around his shoulder, one hand on his back as he listened to Sherlock explain why this letter or that was not interesting but _boring_. The hand on his back, or sometimes his waist, would squeeze or rub a circle before it trailed off with John, and Sherlock liked that too.

It was like a whole new language, Sherlock thought, a tactile language. He was a good student of languages, seeing patterns in grammar and language roots, but this was different. There was an etiquette he had to learn, that he always knew existed but never really bothered with. Social interaction had generally been limited to his family, or the social graces as his mother called them, suitable for formal occasions but not when you and your flatmate were trying out a new, more affectionate relationship.

Generally they restricted their touching to Baker Street, and Sherlock thought John was self-conscious about other people seeing whatever this was. It was true that theirs was a unique situation; he knew that other flatmates did not share their lives as he and John did, and he wasn’t aware of a term that sufficiently explained their relationship. People were so concerned with labels, and John didn’t want to box them up yet, adding a whole lot of other parameters in order to meet the predetermined label. Not to mention John’s past assertions about his own sexuality, which he seemed to feel must address a certain set of criteria. Sherlock didn’t care, as long as John kept touching him. He was becoming accustomed to it, and though it was something he thought about a lot, he wasn’t completely sure yet about how to reciprocate.

John was a natural, a fact which did not surprise Sherlock. He was a social creature, and touch was a part of his nature. Sometimes it was almost an absent thought, like his fingers trailing across Sherlock’s neck as he squeezed past him in the kitchen; other times quite deliberate, like the way he settled closer on the sofa, twining their fingers together until Sherlock could barely tell whose were whose.

Any touch made Sherlock shiver, though some more than others, and he thought that John was learning that, too. When he was concentrating, John might press his shoulder, wordlessly passing him a mug of tea; he had learned that the trailing fingers or occasional kisses to his nape over the back of his chair would be met with irritation at the distraction. Sherlock liked John’s touch, but it shook up his concentration in a way he hadn’t learned to cope with yet. It wasn’t that he didn’t want John to touch him as he passed, it was simply that the effect of such an interaction was to shatter the carefully constructed web of interactions on which he was often thinking, especially about a case.

He didn’t know how to explain this to John without upsetting him; the words to explain his emotions responses did not come easily to Sherlock. He was grateful John knew without being told, and Sherlock tried to show him instead, using the new language of their affection.

He played his violin differently now, more composition (“Music John Would Like”) and Tchaikovsky, though it was still at odd hours. He made an effort to label his experiments, and the microwave had even been deemed suitable for food, now that it had been cleaned extensively. When John told him to eat, he did, even if he wasn’t hungry; it made John radiate satisfaction, which filled Sherlock with contentment.

The physical affection was less natural to Sherlock, who habitually kept to himself, but he made an effort to relax when John sat close on the sofa, even wrapping one long arm around his shoulders one evening. His heart had been pounding, rational brain knowing that this was a logical extension of their hand holding and chaste neck-kissing. Sherlock’s emotional centre had been screaming rejection, but he had gritted his teeth and done it anyway. Miracle of miracles, John had sighed as he melted into Sherlock’s side, his left hand seemingly awkward in Sherlock’s, up by his shoulder, but he didn’t complain. Slowly, Sherlock’s heart slowed, and he relaxed from the rigid posture he had adopted as he made his move. It was quite nice, he thought, having John so close. He could smell John, tea, hair product and their shared shampoo, and the warmth of his body seemed to extend beyond the physical boundary Sherlock knew to be possible. 

For several weeks this developed slowly, the intimacies of their relationship growing to include a level of physical contact Sherlock had never experienced. Sex was one thing, but this permission to touch John chastely and for no reason other than he wanted to, was so much more profound.

For a man who had spent so much time in a war zone, where an unexpected touch or sound could mean the death of yourself or the man next to you, John was remarkably controlled in his reactions.

Sherlock, the few times he had tried to approach John from behind, such as when he was making tea, had not missed the tension of his body for a second before he forced himself to relax as he recognised Sherlock. And yet he had never asked Sherlock not to do so; never insisted he make himself known or change his methods to make John more comfortable. The implicit trust John demonstrated made Sherlock marvel every day, and strive to be deserving of it. He craved it, certainly, but to earn it, be worthy, was another thing altogether. The secret smiles and lingering gazes made Sherlock think that perhaps he was coming close.

From here, though, he was not sure how to progress. What did that even mean, ‘progress’? He enjoyed the closeness he now shared with John, but what came next? Sherlock was not a total innocent, but the perfunctory couplings of his experience had had nothing to do with intimacy. T

his required more practice than he had had, and all he felt he could do was wait for John to show him how.


End file.
